


A Life Full of Color

by handwrittenhello



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Cryofreezing, M/M, Manipulative Nick Fury, Not Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, SHIELD, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, steve is a lab rat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Steve Rogers’ life changed when he volunteered to be part of Project Rebirth. Instead of touring America with the USO, however, he gets shipped off to a research center in the hopes of recreating the serum and testing his abilities.Fast-forward seventy years, and Steve is pulled out of a forgotten storage unit by a very confused SHIELD intern. He begins training to become an agent of SHIELD, but shortly after he starts, the infamous Winter Soldier attacks.Steve is given the assignment of tracking him down, but of course, it’s not so simple. Enter memory loss, spies and international conflict, and maybe, eventually, happiness.Based off this tumblr post: http://showgirlsteve.tumblr.com/post/128878350264/its-pretty-much-accepted-in-canon-that-steves





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for the 2016 Steve/Bucky Big Bang, but unfortunately wasn't able to finish it in time. Better late than never, though, so I'm posting it now. Updates will happen weekly, until I run out of buffer, at which point who knows what will happen ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Title from the song 'The War Was in Color' by Carbon Leaf. i highly recommend you go listen to it and get Steve Rogers feels.

_1942_

The pain of the transformation was the worst Steve had ever felt, and that was saying something, considering the myriad of illnesses he’d contracted over the years. Even pneumonia hadn’t felt like this: a searing pain throughout his entire body, muscles burning and bones stretching.

But then it was over, and Dr. Erskine and Stark were helping him out of the machine. He felt better than he ever had in his entire life, able to gulp in huge breaths without fearing his lungs would seize up, and seeing the world from an entirely different angle due to his increased height.

And then Peggy was there, staring at his chest and asking him how he felt. “Taller,” he replied, panting. His head was still spinning from all the increased feedback he was receiving from the world. The lights, which had seemed bright before, were blinding, and the sterile smells of the lab were overwhelming him.

Everything was just beginning to settle, people coming down to congratulate the scientists, when the bomb went off. It all happened so fast. Dr. Erskine, who had been one of the only people to look at him and see beyond his small stature, was lying on the floor among shattered glass, taking his last breaths and bleeding out from a gunshot wound to the chest.

Steve thundered into the street in hot pursuit. He was just in time to prevent Peggy from being run over, but the gunman sped off in the taxi. He chased after him, but his new physique was going to take some getting used to, as he found out when he crashed through the window of a dress shop.

The rest of the chase was exhilarating; from vaulting a fence to riding on the top of the cab, Steve had never felt more alive.

He caught the German, found he was part of Hydra, and then watched as the agent bit down, hard, on a cyanide pill.

A crowd had started to gather around the commotion, and that was how Peggy and the other agents found him, still looking down at his hands in vague shock.

“Come on, Steve,” Peggy said gently. He followed her back to another hidden SSR base in the city in a daze. _I wonder how many of these they have,_ he thought distantly.

A nurse came in to draw blood shortly after he’d sat down; eight vials of it, and he couldn’t resist asking, “Think you’ve got enough?”

The nurse left without comment, but Peggy chimed in. “Any hope of reproducing the program is locked in your genetic code. Without Dr. Erskine, it will take years.”

Steve’s jaw clenched at the painful reminder. “He deserved more than this.”

Peggy sighed, shuffling the papers and files she held. “If it could work only once, he’d be proud it was you.” She said it casually, like one would say ‘It may rain tomorrow’, but Steve heard the meaning beneath her words. He stared at her, and she stared back.

“What do we got here?” Colonel Phillips asked as he entered the large hangar where Howard was dissecting the Hydra submarine.

“Speaking modestly, I'm the best mechanical engineer in this country. But I don't know what's inside this thing, or how it works,” replied Howard. “We're not even close to this technology.”

Steve listened intently as Phillips explained the threat of Hydra to Senator Brandt. “Sir, if you're going after Hydra, I want to help,” he interjected.

“You’re an experiment, Rogers. You're headed to Alamogordo.”

“The serum worked!” _You have to let me go. Bucky’s over there,_ he didn’t say. If anything, that would make Phillips less inclined to ship him out—Bucky was an attachment he couldn’t afford to have, an attachment that made him weaker, in the army’s eyes.

Phillips looked at him resentfully. “I asked for an army, and all I got was _you_. _You_ are not enough.” Maybe he was right. At a more advanced lab, maybe they could reproduce the serum, and make more super-soldiers. He owed it to Erskine, to America. “Besides, nobody knows what you can do, what kind of damage you’re capable of. Hell, you could end up hurting someone if you aren’t careful.”

Steve sighed. When Phillips put it like that, he really didn’t have much of a choice. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I want you on a train tonight. Stark, with me.”

Steve watched as Howard and Phillips left the room. Peggy followed, but hesitated in front of him for a moment. “You’ll be shipped out soon, don’t worry. They can’t keep you locked away forever.”

He hoped that was true. What use would he be sequestered at some base, wasting away, while good men were fighting and dying every day on the front lines? More than ever, he was itching to fight, ready to punch the moustache off Hitler, and every other bully who thought they could get away with oppressing and terrorizing good people.

“Thanks, Peg. I only hope it isn’t too long.”

She smiled, then left. Steve watched her go, feeling like a ship on a turbulent sea.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

True to his word, Colonel Phillips had Steve on a train to New Mexico that night. The trip was a long, uncomfortable one, spent mostly sitting in awkward silence, surrounded by the same recruits who’d teased and harassed him a week before.

At least nobody was teasing him. Instead, they were either staring at him in open awe and distrust, or steadfastly ignoring him. Maybe the people at Alamogordo would be more welcoming.  

The train pulled into the station just past nine at night two days later, its passengers travel-weary and ready to fall into bed the moment their feet touched solid ground. The platoon tumbled off the train and into Holloman Base, Steve included, but before he could get very far, a man wearing glasses and holding a clipboard approached the group. “Steve Rogers? Is there a Steve Rogers here?”

“That’s me,” Steve said, stepping forward. Phillips must have called ahead and told them to expect him.

“Ah. Mr. Rogers, if you would follow me, please. You won’t be staying with your old platoon.” The man led Steve down a different hallway, and then another, and another, until they reached a set of steel doors. “Dr. Edwards is waiting inside for you,” the man said.

Steve pushed open the doors to find himself inside a laboratory of sorts; behind a cart of equipment, an elderly dark-skinned man in a white coat hunched over a table, muttering to himself.

“Dr. Edwards?” Steve called out, after an awkward minute where the man didn’t notice him, or was ignoring him altogether.

“What? Who’s there?” Upon seeing Steve, he broke out into a great smile. “Mr. Rogers! Why, you are looking splendid. Splendid indeed!” he exclaimed, all the while pumping Steve’s hand enthusiastically.

“Call me Steve,” Steve replied automatically, taken aback. Dr. Edwards was still shaking his hand.

“Steve, then. Oh, but it is wonderful to meet you! I’ve been following Dr. Erskine’s work for years, very interesting stuff!” Edwards said, finally releasing Steve’s hand.

“I’m—I'm sure he’d be glad to hear that. All due respect, sir, but what am I doing here?” Steve asked.

“Of course, you have questions. And you will get them, tomorrow. Tonight, I would like to take some baseline vitals, and let you have your rest. We have lots of work ahead of us.”

Steve didn’t see the harm in that, though he did wonder what Edwards meant by lots of work. The tests didn’t take long at all, only blood pressure, temperature, and other menial things. Afterwards, Edwards showed Steve to a small room just off the lab, with a small cot he could sleep in. Exhausted from the lengthy trip in combination with the physical changes from the procedure, he fell into a dreamless sleep almost instantly.

~*~

Fluorescent lights flickered on in the lab at 7 AM exactly, streaming underneath the crack between the floor and the door of Steve’s room. Steve was already awake and reading a book he had brought, having grown accustomed to the early morning wakeups in basic training. In fact, he had tried the door an hour ago, intending to hit the john, but strangely, it was locked from the outside. Steve figured that maybe it automatically locked, and Edwards had forgotten to give him a key, or something like that. He didn’t want to consider alternatives.

A few moments after the lights turned on, someone knocked on the door, Edwards, as Steve realized when the doctor said, “Mr. Rogers? It’s time to get up.”

“I’m awake. The, uh, door is locked,” Steve replied. It had to have been a mistake.

“Oh, silly me. Hang on one second.” There was silence as Edwards left, returning moments later accompanied by the sound of jingling keys. Light flooded in as Edwards opened the door, and Steve raised a hand to shield his eyes against the onslaught. “We heard there was some bad blood between you and some of your fellow soldiers, and wanted to ensure your safety,” Edwards explained.

“That won't be necessary. I can handle bullies like them.” Edwards didn’t reply, apparently lost in his thoughts. Quietly muttering to himself—Steve wondered if he even knew he was doing it—he led Steve over to a treadmill, next to a machine with leads attached to it.  

“I’d like to test endurance today. I’ll monitor your heart rate, breathing, and brain function while you run. If you need to stop, tell me, but please try to go as long as you can. We’ll get more accurate results that way.”

The test was physically demanding, but Steve reveled in the fact that he now had the ability to run for extreme distances, faster than he had ever run before. By the time he felt like he needed a break, he had run upwards of 30 miles, in just over an hour. Edwards seemed pleased by the results, beaming widely at Steve and nodding in approval as he recorded everything. “Remarkable. Utterly remarkable!” Steve heard multiple times.

“Good work, very good work. I’ll start analyzing the results; in the meantime, why don’t you get some food. You’ve earned it.”

Outside of the lab, the man in glasses was waiting. “You again,” Steve said. “I get my own personal escort now?”

“I will be accompanying you during your time here, yes,” Glasses Man replied crisply. “We want to ensure your safety at all times.”

_Ensure my safety?_ Steve thought. _I didn’t think the other men had it in for me that bad._ “If I’m gonna be seeing more of you, I should at least know your name,” he said instead.

“Simon Bailey. The mess is this way.”

To say the mess hall was busy would be an understatement. The breakfast rush was in full swing, voices echoing, overlapping, amplifying, until Steve could barely hear himself think. He quickly got food and sat down at a table alone, willing himself to believe that it was quieter.

Oatmeal with a little bit of cinnamon, just like Bucky used to make whenever Steve was _really_ sick, to try to cheer him up. Last Steve had heard, Bucky’s unit was leaving France, heading south to Italy. He wondered how they were doing.

“Hey Jo, over here!” A woman’s voice, New York accented, unexpectedly broke through his thoughts. He looked up to see a blonde woman waving someone over to the table he was sitting at. “You don’t mind, do ya, Blondie?” She winked at Steve.  

The woman she was waving at, Jo, made her way over to the table, followed by whoops of appreciation from the men. Steve could see why; she was one beautiful dame. Bold features, a strong jaw line, elaborately curled hair, the whole nine yards. She ignored the jeers with practiced ease, sliding onto the bench across from the other woman, next to Steve. “I swear, I don’t start getting some respect around here, I’m quittin’,” Jo groused, digging in to her oatmeal.

“Oh, come off it, I know ya love the attention,” the first woman teased.

“Only from you, doll,” Jo replied. “Who’s he?” she asked, nodding towards Steve.

“He’s with the new platoon, just rolled in last night.” The other woman looked at Steve, who was feeling increasingly awkward. “Right?”

“Uh, yeah. Steve. Steve Rogers,” he said, offering his hand to shake.

She took it, shaking firmly. “Maggie Foster. Nice to meetcha.”

“Anyways, did you hear what Sergeant Humphreys said yesterday, about the strike in Versailles?” Maggie said to Jo.

“I know, I just can’t believe it!” Maggie and Jo continued talking about Sergeant Humphreys, whoever he was, and Steve soon found himself lost. His mind began to wander, until he overheard a phrase that made his breath catch: “… shame about the 107th. I heard they lost half the unit in Azzano.”

The 107th? “Sorry, what did you say?” Steve felt rude interrupting, but he had to know.

“The 107th infantry, I heard most of ‘em were captured by Nazi troops in Italy. General Williams was talkin’ about it a coupla days ago,” Maggie told him.

Steve paled. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” he said, standing up from the table.

“Wonder what’s got his knickers in a twist?” he heard Jo ask, distantly.

He marched straight up to Simon, determined. “I need to make a call,” he said, trying to infuse steel into his voice, and using his height to his advantage. When he stood up straight, he was a good six inches taller than Simon.

“Mr. Rogers, I’m afraid I can’t just let you make a call. Other people need to use it more than you do, and we need you to help us with our research.”

“Five minutes. That’s all I need.” _I just need to talk to Peggy._

Simon looked at him for a long moment, and Steve tried to project the desperation he was feeling. Eventually, Simon sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Five minutes, at dinner. I can’t risk any more than that.”

“Thank you, Simon.” Dinner seemed like an eternity away, but it was better than nothing. “Why don’t we see what Dr. Edwards has in store?” he asked, trying to force a jovialness he didn’t feel. Hopefully the research would distract him until he could make that call.

~*~

Dr. Edwards had Steve do everything from the extreme to the mundane; Steve lifted weights until he felt as if he would collapse from the sheer amount of weight on top of him, held his breath until he saw spots in his vision, and ran on the treadmill again, this time trying for speed rather than endurance. Edwards wrote it all down: 800 pounds bench pressed, two minutes and 53 seconds holding his breath, and a top speed of 80 miles per hour. Steve was amazed; such feats would have been unthinkable before the serum, especially with his asthmatic lungs.

Steve was all but ready to collapse by the time dinner rolled around; the portions served in the mess hall, though they previously seemed like a feast compared to what he and Bucky used to scrape by on, now were barely enough to quell the rumbling in his stomach that had started sometime around 2 PM, and hadn’t stopped since. He supposed that much exercise would do that to anyone, though.

He waited impatiently for Simon to collect him; he had managed to get Steve his time on the phone, as much as the higher-ups weren’t pleased with it. It was ages before he showed up in the doorway, scanning the crowd for Steve. He was up like a shot, dodging and weaving among the tables filled with recruits.

“Follow me,” Simon said. They walked down a series of hallways, and Steve began to get the feeling that even if he lived here a hundred years, he would never get the hang of navigating the endless maze that was the base. “Two minutes,” Simon warned when they arrived, and retreated to the end of the hall to give Steve some privacy.

He dialed the number for the SSR quickly, thankful that Peggy had thought to teach it to him in case of emergencies. It rang once, twice, three times, before someone picked it up. “Agent Carter, speaking?”

“Peggy, it’s Steve. I need you to do me a favor.”

“Steve? What’s wrong?”

“My friend’s unit, the 107th, went missing a couple of days ago near Azzano, Italy. I need to see if he’s okay.”

“And how do you propose to do that? You’re in the middle of the desert, halfway across the country. It’s not a short hike away.”

“Is there some way I could be transferred to another base in Europe? Even London would be close enough.”

“Close enough for what? Steve, what are you planning?” There was no reprehension in her voice, simply curiosity, and maybe even excitement.

“Listen, you and I both know that they won't let their brand new supersoldier walk off into the middle of a warzone, not with the way they're treating me here. It’s as if I'm made of glass.”

“You want to break out.”

“Yes. All I need is to be transferred to Europe. If I break out from here, it would only be a matter of time before I was caught. It’ll be easier to go undetected over there.”

Peggy sighed. “And once you do break out, what do you plan to do? Like you said, you can’t just walk into the middle of a warzone, unarmed and by yourself.”

“I have a plan, but I’ve only got about a minute left on the phone. There’s not enough time to explain. Please, Peggy, I need you to do this for me.”

“I’ll see what I can do. For now, keep your head down, be smart. And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Be safe.” Just then, the phone went dead, and Simon rounded the corner.

“Time’s up. Sorry I couldn’t get you more than that. The base commander didn’t want you to have any time at all. This was a compromise.”

“That’s alright. I said what I needed to.” Simon nodded noncommittally, and they continued walking in silence.

When they got to the lab, Dr. Edwards wasn’t there, having presumably retired for the day, and so Steve was free to spend the rest of the evening as he wished. He considered inviting Simon to play a hand of cards, but when he turned around, Simon had disappeared. Oh well.

After an hour of trying in vain to read a book, Steve gave up, too distracted by his worries about Bucky and the plan to rescue him. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, punctuated by nightmares full of gunfire and smoke.

~*~

The days while Steve waited for transfer passed agonizingly slowly, and if Dr. Edwards made any progress in recreating the serum, he didn’t say.

Steve endured test after test after test, getting wearier and wearier as the days passed with no news. Finally, on the third agonizing day after his call to Peggy, a very important-looking man walked up to where he was sitting with Jo and Maggie at lunch, and told him to report to the airstrip immediately. His belongings had apparently already been loaded onto the plane waiting for him. He bid a quick goodbye to the girls, and rushed to the airstrip, eager to take off as soon as possible.

However, the man had neglected to mention that it would be Howard Stark himself piloting the plane. Stark greeted him like an old friend, escorting him onto the plane quickly, which Steve was grateful for. Steve had never been on a plane before, never having had the means nor a reason to fly anywhere, but the flight wasn’t as awe-inspiring as he expected. Bucky would have enjoyed the flight more, what with his interest in mechanics and science fiction. With nothing to occupy his time, Steve began to plan his rescue. He had a knack for strategy, as he’d found out in Basic, and fully intended to take advantage of his newfound skill.

He couldn’t get very far, he realized, when he didn’t know any details about the facility he was being transferred to. It was in London, as Stark had told him just before they took off, but anything other than that was a complete mystery. He would just have to wait a couple of days, observe.

“We’ll be landing in about five minutes, might wanna grab onto something. The weather’s pretty rough!” Stark shouted from the cockpit. Outside the plane, trees swayed wildly, as if shaken by the hand of God himself, and ruthless gusts of wind pelted the windows of the plane with fat raindrops, until they sounded like machine gun fire.

As soon as the plane landed, an indiscernible figure rushed onto the tarmac, taking shelter underneath a coat held over its head. It ran to the plane, and as it drew closer, it resolved itself into Peggy, to his surprise.

She yelled something, but even with his advanced hearing, the storm was too loud to make out what she was saying. He shook his head, and she grabbed his arm, leading him quickly inside a dimly lit hallway.

“Peggy, what are you doing here?” Then he realized that sounded unwelcoming, and quickly tried to backtrack. “Not that I'm unhappy to see you. I just didn’t expect—I thought—back at home—” He trailed off after another few seconds of awkward stammering.

“You still have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you? Never mind. We don’t have long together. After they take you to your room, wait until eight o’clock tomorrow night. Someone will unlock the door. Go down the hall to your right, then turn left, and exit at the fourth door on the left. There will be supplies for a few days waiting for you, as well as transportation.”

“Wow, Peg, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“Don’t let it go to waste. Bring them home, Steve.” With that, she pulled him down for a chaste kiss on his cheek. Her lips were soft, maybe the softest thing he had ever felt, and when she pulled back, he could still feel the warmth on his skin. She was staring at him, cataloguing every inch of his face, and he was lost in the warm depth of her amber eyes.

The sound of footsteps rounding the corner startled them apart, and Peggy’s eyes widened. “I have to go. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be here. Be safe,” she said, an echo of their last conversation, and walked out into the rain towards Stark.

Steve watched her go, wishing he could spend another minute with her in this frightening new place, then ran a hand through his hair, turning to face the woman approaching.

The routine of getting settled was the same: here’s your room, meet Dr. Fulton, meals are at this time, let’s take your temperature and blood pressure and every other measurement under the sun. However, the first experiment Dr. Fulton wanted to run surprised Steve.

“You’re gonna freeze me?” Steve asked, arms crossed, looking dubiously at the metal container, not unlike Stark’s Vita-Ray machine, hooked up to all sorts of wires.

“Not exactly. We just want to test your resistance to low temperatures,” Dr. Fulton said. That still sounded like freezing to Steve, whichever way he said it. No amount of euphemisms would change the fact that he would be climbing into a claustrophobic box and frozen.

He didn’t like it, but the fact remained that he had to keep his head down until eight o’clock tomorrow night. He sighed and acquiesced, allowing the lab assistants to inject a mild sedative before the cryofreeze chamber clanged shut, sealing with a harsh hiss.

Cold air began to flood in, but the sedative prevented him from shivering too much, which was nice. Frost was beginning to cover the surface, crystals forming into abstract shapes. Steve traced the lines, thinking that they would be a real challenge to draw, and felt his eyes slip shut. That was okay too, because he was getting tired. He could have a quick nap, right? Nobody would mind.

The temperature got lower and lower, but Steve was oblivious, his brain and body shutting down in response to the cold.

Outside the chamber, the scientists were monitoring his vitals, when a massive rumble shook the building. Sirens started wailing throughout the building, signaling an air raid.

“Bring him back to normal temperature!” someone yelled.

“It’s too late for that! His brain has already stopped everything but the most basic functions. If we bring him up too quickly, it could cause serious tissue damage!” replied another.

“Keep him under!” ordered Dr. Fulton. “There’s no time. We’ll have to keep the machine running until after the raid. Everybody shelter in place!”

They were too late; the walls crumbled around them, roof collapsing, as the German bombs overwhelmed them. Shouts were quickly muffled by several tons of concrete and brick, until only the distant wail of the siren could be heard.

The only remaining living person in the room slept on inside his metal prison, unaware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments clear my skin and water my crops <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and by 'updates every Friday' I mean 'updates will resume after end of quarter'. Oops, I guess. Good news though, ya girl scored no semester grades below a B!!! Now that senior year first semester is over, I expect to write a lot more of this. Anyway, on to the chapter!

_2014_

SHIELD Probationary Agent Missy Rodriguez unlocked the door to the Archives with a sigh, coughing when she was met with the musty smell of dust and old paper. As she traveled further back into the cavernous room, the dates on the labels got older and older, lights flickering and failing in some places, casting eerie shadows on outlandish pieces of equipment.

“Why is it always me that gets caught?” she complained, not looking forward to her task. “’Play a prank on Cortez with us!’ they said. ‘He’ll just laugh it off!’ they said. Yeah, hardee-frikkin-har.” She stopped when she reached the section labeled 1940-1950.

“This stuff is older than my grandmother. Who the hell needs” – she peered at the description closest to her— “a patented 1946 earthquake predictor? Why do we even have this?”

She continued browsing, not quite ready to drown herself in monotonous organizational work yet. “Boring. Boring. Outdated. Boring. Ooh, that might be cool—holy crap!” Dull, rusted metal winked at her from a dark corner, almost completely hidden beneath a large tarp. She yanked it off, revealing a metal pod larger than her. “Whoa, a medieval torture chamber!”

She inspected it for handle to open it, finally spotting a note card attached to a wheel on the opposite side. _Cryofreeze machine, Dr. Patrick Fulton, London, UK. On loan from Strategic Scientific Reserve 1941-1945. Archived 1945._

“Whoa.” _But does it still work?_ she thought. _Only one way to find out._ She turned the rusted wheel slowly, as cold air hissed out. The lid was heavy, and Missy thanked the fact that strength training classes were required as part of her training.

Curious, she looked inside to see how it worked, and caught a glimpse of pale skin frosted over with ice. “What the fuck!” she screamed, dropping the lid closed. She ran back through the maze of archived items, tearing up the stairs towards the nearest office.

~*~

Steve opened his eyes to gentle white light and clothes and a bed softer than anything he’d felt before. A radio played softly in the background, a ball game, it sounded like.

He sat up too quickly, and blinked the stars from his vision. The room he was in was nice, but he didn’t have much time to take it in before the door opened, admitting a woman dressed _completely_ wrong. Her hair hung limply, her tie was too wide, and he couldn’t help but notice the outline of her bra through her shirt. He may not have known what the fashion was in Germany, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.

This wasn’t the SSR, that was for sure. His next thought was that he’d been captured by Hydra, and they were trying to win his trust.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” she said sweetly.

“Fine. Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York.” New York? Had Hydra won? The baseball game continued in the background, and as Steve listened more closely, one phrase caught his attention.

“The Dodgers take the lead, it’s five to four, Reiser leading the team to victory!” May, 1941, and he and Bucky had snuck into the game, sweating under the oppressively hot sun, but it didn’t matter, because Steve had just gotten over the ‘flu, and they were celebrating. They had splurged on hotdogs with extra mustard, and when the announcer had said that phrase, barely heard over the sudden roar of the crowd, Bucky had leaned over, high on the warm weather and the Dodgers’ victory, mustard smeared across one cheek, and kissed him. It had been quick—they couldn’t risk being seen—but everyone had been distracted by the run, cheering, and Bucky had been willing to throw caution to the wind for one precious moment.

So no, he was not in a recovery room in New York. “Where am I, really?” he demanded, standing up. 

“I don’t know what you mean. Please, sir, if you could just sit down, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” she warned, but Steve didn’t miss how she pushed a button on a small device she held, blinking red. A bomb? A portable telegraph? Either way, it didn’t bode well for him.

Hoping that his hunch was correct, he drove his elbow against the far wall, punching through the weak plaster and meeting with air instead of unyielding concrete. As the woman shouted into her walkie-talkie, he burst through a steel set of doors, running into a hallway full of people who all looked like they wanted to stop him.

He needed to get out of here as soon as possible, and then he needed to find Peggy and Bucky. Trusting anybody else at this point could be his final act.

He sprinted out of the building with at least five other men in hot pursuit, into the busy streets of Brooklyn. The woman hadn’t been lying about where he was, but who was in control of the city remained a mystery.

Steve slowed to a stop as he took in the sight around him, stunned; bright screens advertising colorful products like at the movies, flashing lights everywhere, buildings taller than any he’d seen before, all shiny glass, people of all ages and ethnicities streaming down the sidewalk, sleek cars as far as the eye could see.

_Overwhelmed_ would be an understatement.

As he stood there, taking the whole scene in, three shiny black cars pulled up in front of him, spitting out men holding guns, until he was surrounded. A crowd was starting to gather. Even when he’d come out of Stark’s machine two feet taller and with a hundred more pounds of muscle, he’d never felt more watched, more exposed.

Suddenly, he felt two tiny pricks in his neck, and when he reached up, he pulled out darts no bigger than his thumbnail. He felt the effects almost immediately; his head started to spin—he stumbled, vision graying out. His knees hit hard, unforgiving pavement—he tried to catch himself, to stand back up and _fight, damn it—_ but it was too late.

Moments later, he woke up and—no, that wasn’t right. According to the clock on the wall, it was either three in the afternoon or three in the morning, hours past his adventure in the street. He had been moved to a small cot in a plain room, or should he say, prison cell. He was surrounded on three sides by harsh concrete; the other wall was glass, and through it, Steve saw a black man in an eyepatch approaching.

“Let me out,” Steve said before Eyepatch Man even had a chance to say anything.

“You gonna run away again?” Eyepatch Man asked coolly. Steve didn’t respond. “I can’t let you go until we get some answers. And since I'm guessing you want answers too, why don’t we have a chat? If you still want to leave afterwards, we won't hold you here.”

There was no way it would be that easy, but Steve _did_ want information. After consideration, he reluctantly nodded, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

“I’m Nick Fury, director of SHIELD.”

“Steve Rogers, US Army. What the hell is SHIELD?”

“Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, originally called the SSR. We were founded in the early ‘50s in response to terrorist organizations like Hydra.”

“’50’s as in 1950? What year is it?” Lord, if it was the ‘70s or even the ‘60s, he had no chance of rescuing Bucky.

“You’ve been out of it for a long time. It’s 2014.”

_No._ “That can't be right,” Steve argued, dumbfounded. _Bucky, Peggy, everyone he knew, would be long dead by now._

“Why’d they put you in that cryo chamber? 70 years, that’s a long time to be frozen,” Fury noted. How could Fury sound so calm, when the whole world had been turned upside down?

“It was a mistake,” Steve said faintly. “It was only supposed to be a few minutes.” _70 years._ “How—how did this happen?”

“We think there was an air raid while you went under. All of our records say the chamber was found in the rubble, and shoved into storage. SHIELD didn’t receive it until after the war. We won, by the way.”

At least there was that. So much for joining the fight, though. “You said SSR—do you know an Agent Margaret Carter?”

“Hell, she founded the damn place! Yeah, she was Director up until the ‘70s. Retired now, God knows she earned it.”

“She—she’s still alive? Where?”

“She’s in a facility in D.C. I take it you knew her?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Before I got the serum, even.” Steve dropped his gaze, lost in memory. It hadn’t even been a full day since he’d met her in the rain, it seemed, hadn’t even been a full day since their first—last—kiss.

“The serum?” Fury questioned. Of all things, Steve would have expected that to be the most documented.

“Erskine’s super soldier serum. I didn’t always look like this,” he smiled humorlessly.

“ _You’re_ the great super soldier Erskine created?” For the first time, Fury’s cool façade broke, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “That experiment failed.”

“Obviously, it didn’t,” Steve snapped, getting fed up. He began to pace, trying to work off the adrenaline still left in his system. “Listen, I’ve given you your answers, now let me go.”

“Mr. Rogers, we think you could do some real good with us. Would you be willing to join SHIELD as an agent, change the world?”

Oh, but Fury was dangerous. Not even ten minutes in a room with Steve, and he’d already pegged his greatest wish. Steve had to admit, what Fury was selling did sound good, but the fact that it came from someone who knew exactly how to get to him rubbed him the wrong way.

“I’ll think about it,” he conceded, not wanting to get on Fury’s bad side. “I think I need to take some time to… adjust.”

“Take all the time you need, Mr. Rogers. We’ll set up a room for you.” Fury tapped the glass, and a numbered keypad appeared. Within seconds, Steve was out of his cell, being led through a maze of hallways. It was deathly quiet, in stark contrast to the loudness of the city outside, until Steve heard a murmur of voices from ahead of them.

They entered a wide-open cafeteria, floor-to-ceiling-windows looking out on the nighttime New York scene. Not many people occupied it at this hour, but the few that did stared at him, whispering to each other; Steve felt his cheeks growing warm. He’d never been good around crowds.

Then he spotted the food, and forgot all about the stares. There was _so much of it._ Just the stuff that Steve could see was more than he and Bucky could afford in a month. But the prices, good lord in heaven.

“I can't afford this,” he protested, and then, “I can’t afford anything.” Who knew what had happened to his bank account.

“Free of charge. Take as much as you want.” Good, because his appetite had grown tenfold since getting the serum.

Thirty minutes and three full trays later, the gnawing in Steve’s stomach that he hadn’t noticed before was gone, and Fury led him to his new quarters.

The constant litany of _what the hell what the hell_ in his head was just starting to die down, too, when Fury casually said, “We’ll run some tests in the morning, and you’ll be good to go.” Instantly, Steve was on high alert, and it was only by some miracle he kept it off his face. Instead, he pasted on a smile and thanked Fury earnestly.

Just as he was leaving, Steve seized his chance. He refused to be a lab rat again. “I’m not really tired yet, do you think I could take a look around?” he asked, playing on his hunch. If he was right, and Fury was so eager to recruit him, then he would be willing to do almost anything to butter Steve up; he might as well use it to his advantage.

“I’ll assign an agent to show you around.”

“Actually, I’d rather be alone, if that’s alright. Got a lot of thoughts to straighten out.” Having an agent with him would completely ruin his chances of escape.

“Suit yourself. Sleep tight, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve fought his natural instinct to bolt as soon as Fury left, taking his time to amble through the hallways, slowly but steadily making his way towards the front door. Slipping out a side door or emergency exit would be too obvious, and Peggy had taught him how to hide in plain sight. How to make sure you were underestimated, how to get lost in a crowd, how to use his size as an advantage.

He might not be five feet anymore, but the concept was still the same.

He wandered around the front lobby for a while, pretending to stare thoughtfully out the window, waiting for some kind of distraction.

Not ten minutes later, a group of people falling over themselves in laughter over something headed towards the front doors. Steve broke away from the window quickly, walking behind them as confidently as he could, which wasn’t hard when you were over six feet tall and built like a tank.

Remarkably, he passed through the doors without any sort of alarm going off and no men shouting behind him. Now to get far away from this place, with its too-tall buildings and too many people and too-bright lights.

There was the small question of transportation, however. He’d never learned to drive a car, nor how to steal one, as much as Bucky had always joked it would be a useful skill to have.

A motorcycle, though, a motorcycle he might be able to handle. After all, it was just like riding a bicycle, right? Just faster. He did feel a little guilty for stealing it, but told himself he could return it later, and hopped on.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Three months later_

Sweat dripped down Steve’s face; he dodged a blow aimed at his head, only to be caught by a kick to his stomach. He let out a _whuff_ as the air was knocked out of him, frantically dodging the next hit. He thrust out a leg, trying to knock his opponent off balance, but they easily dodged, returning the favor with an elbow to the chest.

He went down hard—his opponent seized the chance, trapping him in a headlock until he had no choice but to admit defeat.

He tapped the mat, and Natasha eased up, though she knocked him down again once he stood up, disappointment written in the lines of her face.

“If you want any chance at winning a fight, Rogers, you’re gonna have to be faster. Use your opponent’s strength against them.”

Steve groaned, getting to his feet. Even though he had forgiven Natasha for lying to him, it was times like this he regretted becoming friends with her.

“Again,” Natasha ordered, waiting almost no time before launching a series of furious attacks at him. Steve fought as best he could, but he was no match for Natasha. He got in a few lucky hits here and there, and each time she would smile sharply, before executing a move that would take him down.

Every day, after Steve went to his various classes (How to Be a Badass 101, Sam called them) he would seek out Natasha, and the two of them would spar in the Triskelion gym. She was a harsh teacher, more focused on learning through action, but with each passing week, Steve found himself being knocked down far less.

He was also finding his training more rewarding than he’d originally thought it would be. Instead of wasting away inside, he was making friends, learning how to fight, how to hack computers (Sam had shown him the basics of using a computer, but it was another thing entirely to know that you could access secret files and the like by writing strings of code).

He worked hard, eager to get out in the field, and before he knew it, he had officially become Probationary Agent Steve Rogers.

His first assignment was easy, surveillance only, paired with a senior agent he hadn’t met yet, Clint Barton. He was good friends with Natasha, though, and considering the people Natasha trusted intimately were few and far between, Steve had a pretty good feeling about him.

Barton was even more of a goofball than Natasha, and kind of a mess as well, Steve noticed. When asked about the broken nose and black eye he sported, Clint shrugged, and said he had run into a pole. “Wow, that sounds really bad, doesn’t it? I swear I'm being serious, not covering up or something,” he laughed.

The mission went well, and they reported back to SHIELD successful. Steve was looking forward to eating a nice dinner and relaxing for the evening without homework or the like to do. He exchanged a few jokes with Clint, and they headed through the front lobby to the cafeteria together.

Of course, that when everything went to hell.

The glass windows exploded. Steve tackled Clint, covering him with his body. They rode out the shockwave, and another explosion—Steve’s ears were ringing. He smelled smoke, couldn’t breathe—a flash of a memory, in Brooklyn, Bucky hurriedly putting out his cigarette, rubbing Steve’s chest as he coughed, until he didn’t have air anymore—but Clint was pulling them both to cover, where the air was clearer, and he could breathe again.

Clint snapped his bow case open, assembling the weapon in seconds. Steve cleared the last of the smoke from his lungs, scrambling to stand up, to see the damage.

At least five agents lying amid broken glass, blood speckling the floor. Structural damage to the east wing—several small fires burned. No sign of the attacker—no movement at all, beyond the medics rushing to the wounded.

_Fwip. Fwip._ Two bullets, silenced, zipped through the air, hitting one medic and barely missing another.

Steve abandoned his cover to get a better vantage point. It looked like the explosions had been caused by a series of grenades launched through the window. Steve calculated trajectory angles of the bullets and blast patterns, figuring the attacker (possibly more than one, actually) must be across the street, probably on top of one of the buildings.

He took off, racing up flights of stairs, until he got to the roof of the Triskelion. He stayed still, not wanting to become an instant target, and waited for a sign—the flash of a gun muzzle, the roar of a car taking off, a moving shadow.

Two seconds later, he saw it—a flash as moonlight reflected off something metal, on top of the nearest building. He judged the gap; he could make it, if he got a running start.

He backed up, gathered speed, and _leaped_ with all of his power; he cleared the space, landing in a roll, and came up running. He heard a gunshot, two, felt the bullets barely graze him, and then he was upon the shooter.

Steve tried to tackle him to the ground, but he was surprisingly agile, and easily fended Steve off. Almost immediately, Steve was put on the defensive, frantically dodging thrusts of a knife wielded by a shiny metal arm. A few times, Steve was too slow, and felt the burn as it nicked him in the bicep or the side.

The shooter was _fast,_ had reflexes as good as Steve; he was obviously highly trained in close combat. All of Natasha’s training had nothing against this, and Steve would bet even she would have a hard time beating him.

He fought as fiercely as he could, but could feel himself quickly tiring, sweat running down his face. Despite his best efforts, the shooter gained the upper hand, pinning Steve to the ground by his neck with one hand.

One metal hand, crushing his windpipe. Steve choked, kicking out wildly, but connected with nothing. Stars were appearing in his vision, there wasn’t anything he could do—

 Then Natasha was there, red hair flying, wrapping a garrote wire around the shooter’s throat and pulling him off Steve. He sucked in a huge breath, and reentered the fray.

Natasha and Steve had the advantage of two on one, but still had a hard time holding their ground. The shooter fought with the fury of a thousand storms, focused and deadly. Sometime during the fight, his goggles had come off, revealing blank eyes.

Natasha kicked him, and he rolled across the roof, coming up aiming a gun directly at Steve. Natasha’s gun was trained on him, everyone frozen in place except for their heavy breathing.

Stalemate.

“The Winter Soldier,” Natasha said. The shooter, the Soldier, remained motionless. “We’ve met before. Do you remember?”

In one swift motion, the Soldier aimed his gun at her. Steve seized the opportunity and lunged for it, knocking it off aim. The Soldier pinned him again easily, gun pressed to his temple, staring.

His eyes weren’t blank anymore. There was a small furrow in his brow, and a hint of emotion in his eyes. Confusion? Fear? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter; Steve blinked, and the Soldier was gone.

Natasha lowered her gun, staring at where the Soldier had vanished over the side of the building. Steve sat up. Neither of them spoke.

~*~

The next few hours at SHIELD were spent tending to wounds, running systems checks, and debriefing. By the time the bustle had settled into more of a hum, it was nearing midnight.

Steve sat alone at a table in the cafeteria, nursing a cup of coffee with his thoughts. Why hadn’t the Winter Soldier shot? Sure, Natasha had her gun trained on him, but he could have easily killed him and vanished as quickly as he had, without much more of a risk.

No, Steve thought it had something to do with the look in the Soldier’s eyes. Whatever he had seen there, when before there had been only blankness, had a part to play in this, he was sure.

The only thing Steve couldn’t figure out was what had stopped him. He hadn’t been able to see very much in the dark, especially with most of the Soldier’s face covered by that mask, but whatever emotion it had been, it wasn’t good.

Steve was pulled out of his thoughts by Natasha silently sitting down next to him. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“Fine,” Steve said, sipping at his coffee.

“No, you're not. You're brooding.”

“Yeah, maybe. Can you blame me?”

She laughed dryly. “No, not really.” They shared a contemplative silence, before Natasha took a deep breath in. “They call him the Winter Soldier. Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years.”

"But you knew him,” Steve said.

“Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him, straight through me.”

“He has to be working with somebody.”

“I agree. Attacking SHIELD headquarters with no backup and no clear target is a suicide mission. The only question is who.”

“We’ve gotta go after him. You with me?” Steve asked, turning to face her.

She raised an eyebrow. “You really think Fury’s gonna let you?”

“There was a reason he didn’t shoot me on the roof. I don’t know what, but… I have to find out.”

“I’m with you, as long as you're the one to ask Fury.”

“Deal.”

Fury took it pretty much as expected: lots of shouting, and cursing, and shouting curses. (Clint wanted to record the whole thing, but didn’t, probably because it would be the last thing he ever did.) It took some convincing, but Steve finally managed to earn the assignment of tracking down the Winter Soldier and his affiliates.

He started researching that night, poring over files and reports well into the wee hours of the morning. He fell asleep without realizing it, slumped in over a desk in the archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops. sorry for the late update but hey! guess who got into college! anyway the next update will be sometime before the end of the school year probably maybe. thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly setup, stolen shamelessly from the actual movie. Soon enough we'll get to the good stuff!


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